by Andy Remic
So you wish to die, Kell? Her voice was a beautiful lullaby, so musical in better times happier times it would have lulled Kell to his bed. Often Kell had pictured the woman behind the voice. He corrected himself. The demon behind the voice, for Ilanna was anything but human, a thousand leagues from mortal. He pictured her as tall, beautiful, elegant; but also haughty, arrogant, filled with a self-love that made her despise all others. A cruel woman, then. And a deadly foe.
I do not wish to die, he said, and the words shamed him.
The Harvester is a terrible, deadly enemy, Ilanna said, and Kell felt the axe vibrating in his fingers, growing hot with a million tiny judders. You cannot kill it, so do not ever try. Even I could not sever his head, crush his bones. The best you can do is slow him down, for every cell in his alien body is infused with blood-oil magick. He is a creature of blood, and nothing mortal can break him.
How do I slow him?
He is tall, off-balance; a creature of mechanical motion. Aim for his knees, strike his knees and ankles with all your might. You may buy yourself a minute at best. But be quick, Kell. Her voice rose to a shriek as their sliver of time, their slice of twisted reality started to accelerate in sudden violence into the real-
World.
The bone tubes slammed for Kell’s heart and he rolled, fast, slamming the ground and coming up, teeth bared in a grimace, axe clenched tight to his breast. The Harvester chuckled, frame bobbing as he turned on Kell who charged, axe swinging for the Harvester’s chest. The creature made no move to protect itself, but instead attacked, clawed hands lashing out at Kell who altered his strike at the last moment, his charge turning into a low roll as the axe swept for the Harvester’s knees…there came a crunch, a compression of bone, and the Harvester shrieked and buckled, toppling like a sack of dry twigs and Kell was up and running, pushing Nienna and Kat along towards the stunned figure of Saark, who was crawling to his knees, clutching his head. Blood tricked from a cut at his temple, and he looked ashen, about to be sick.
“Is it dead?” breathed Nienna, and they all glanced back.
Across the gloom of the tannery, the Harvester rose to its feet and turned to face them. Its eyes burned like tiny black holes of hatred. It pointed at Kell, and started forward, and the group ran between huge tankers, rusted and smeared with shit, making the girls gag and vomit. Down a brick slope they ran, and Kell pointed with his axe, in silence, almost afraid to speak. There was a wide tunnel, which led out and down…
“I can’t crawl in there!” wailed Nienna.
“You’ll have to, chipmunk,” said Saark, flashing Nienna a smile she did not understand, and jumped in, shit and chemicals splashing up his leggings, staining his silk shirt, mixing with blood, and vomit and rendering his dandy imagery a bad comedy. The opening wasn’t as wide as it first looked, and Kell leapt in, splashing forward, with the girls following reluctantly. They stooped, squeezing into the waste pipe, Kell leading and Saark taking up the rear, his rapier out, his eyes dark.
The Harvester stopped, making a soft keening sound. Ice-smoke drifted from the cuffs of its robe, and it watched the four people vanish. In silence it turned and stalked from the tannery.
The waste pipe led down, beneath the tannery and into a narrow black-brick sewer filled with waste. Kell dropped in, scratching the skin of his hands and shins and belly, then helped Nienna and Kat to climb down the rugged, crumbling brickwork. He turned, squinting at distant light, as a cursing Saark dropped down beside him.
“Thanks for the help,” he said, tone openly sardonic.
“Don’t mention it.”
“Damn! Would you look at this silk shirt? I’ll never be able to get it clean. Do you know how much it cost? It’s the finest weave, from the Silk-Blenders of Vor…they wear these in Leanoric’s Court!”
“There are more important things than silk shirts, Saark.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Do you know how many women this shirt has wooed? How many tapered fingers have stroked its flank? It’s like a magick key. First it unlocks the heart; then it unlocks the chastity belt.”
“Grandpa, what’s a chastity belt?” came Nienna’s voice from the gloom.
Kell threw Saark a dark look. “Nothing, don’t listen to the pampered shit-streaked fool. Follow me. We need to move fast.”
They splashed through thick, swirling waste, trying hard not to think about the guts and offal, dyes and dogshit which made up the slurry. At one point Nienna brushed against a dead cat, half-submerged, and she screamed, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. Her body heaved, frail frame wracking with disgust, and Kat comforted her, holding her close, as they continued to wade forward. There wasn’t time to stop; no time for weakness. The Harvester might be waiting at the other end of the tunnel.
The tunnel was long, dropping at several stages on its way down to the Selenau River. Occasionally vertical venting tunnels, narrow fist-wide apertures, rose up through brick and stone and promised tantalising glimpses of the outside world.
Kat screamed, suddenly going down on one knee. Slop rose up to her chin and she spluttered, eyes closed, face twisted in disgust. “Nienna,” she wailed, but Kell surged back to her, pushing Nienna up ahead to Saark, who was muttering dark oaths, his face smeared with guts and old blood. It was even stronger than Saark’s perfume.
“What’s wrong?” snapped Kell.
“I twisted my ankle.”
“Can you walk?”
“I don’t know.”
“Walk or die,” said Kell, voice low, eyes glittering.
Kat forced herself up, wincing, and leaning on Kell’s shoulder she limped after Nienna and Saark. She was stunned by the iron in the old man’s muscles, but equally stunned by the icy turn of his attitude.
Would he have left me? she thought.
The Hero of Jangir Field?
The Black Axeman of Drennach?
She ground her teeth, thinking of her life, of the bitterness, of the failures, of the people who had left, and more importantly, the people who had returned. Of course he would leave her, she thought, and a particular lode of bitterness ran through her heart. That’s why he came back, instead of letting Nienna help her friend. If she’d broken her ankle, slowed them down, made excessive noise…she looked up at his grey beard, the wide, stocky set of his shoulders, the huge bearskin which made him seem more animal than human. Well, she thought. She was pretty sure his long knife would have slid through her ribs, ending the problem, negating the threat.
She shivered, as a chill breeze caressed her soul.
And for the first time she looked at Kell not as an old man; but as a killer.
Saark had stopped, hand held out towards the others. He turned, eyes meeting Kell’s. “It’s the river,” he said.
Kell nodded, pushing to the front. The noise of fast flowing water invaded the tunnel egress, and he watched the circle of light, drifting with ice-smoke, for quite some time. He edged forward, took a good grip on his axe, and peered outside.
Slop and effluence dropped down through a series of concrete channels, and fell under a timber platform and into the Selenau River. Here, the river took a tight turn, narrowing between two rock walls and raging over several clumps of stone, white and frothing, and charging off through the city. The timber platform was based on rock, then edged out on stilts over the river, the wood dark and oil-slick with preservative. Several drums and barrels stood at one end, and a small, calm off-shoot of concrete-hemmed water housed five small boats on a simulated canal.
Saark was beside him. “We take a boat?”
“Seems like a good idea, lad.”
“Let’s do it.”
“Wait.” Kell placed a hand on Saark’s chest. “That…thing, a Harvester it’s called; it was keen to suck our blood, yes?”
Saark nodded.
“Chances are, it’s out there. We need to move fast, Saark. No mistakes. Be ready with that pretty little sword.”
Again, Saark nodded, and the group waded out into g
rey light, the sky filled with wisps and curls of ice-smoke, thinner now, but still reducing visibility over a hundred yard range. Kell was scanning left and right as they scrambled down icy concrete ramps, past where the sludge from the tannery pipes fell. Then his boots hit the wooden platform with a thud, and he stood, a huge bear, arms high, axe held before his chest as his gaze swept the world.
Nienna and Kat slid down the concrete ramps on their bottoms, followed by Saark, his poise perfect, fine clothing ruined by dyes and shit. His sword was in his fist, and his eyes were narrowed, focused, searching…
Kell moved to a boat, and hacked through the knot with his axe blade. Taking the rope in one fist, he ushered the girls and Saark, who had turned, towards the end of the timber platform lost in mist—from which drifted the Harvester, eyes glowing, five bony fingers pointing towards the group.
“Get in,” growled Kell.
Saark took the girls, and they leapt into the boat, cracking ice around the vessel in the still-water channel. The currents tugged, and Saark leaned forward, grasping the platform. “Get in, Kell,” he snapped. But Kell had turned, and rolled his mighty shoulders as the Harvester accelerated, frame bobbing as it moved fast towards him, a high-pitched keening coming from its flat, oval nostrils. Kell sprinted, and leapt, axe lashing out but the Harvester moved, fast, rolling away from the blades, bony fingers lashing out. Kell’s axe cut back on a reverse stroke, slamming the arm away, and he skidded on icy wood, righting himself. The Harvester lowered its head towards him.
“You will die a long, painful death, little man.”
“Show me, laddie,” snarled Kell, head low, shoulders lifted, powerful, as the Harvester attacked. His axe lashed out, was knocked aside but he ducked, whirled a low circle with Ilanna singing through cold air to slam fast at the Harvester’s legs…it stepped back and the axe turned, coming up over Kell’s head in a glittering arc as he stepped in, and the blades smashed down at the Harvester’s shoulders. There came a sound, like snapping wood, the blades were savagely deflected to the right dragging Kell off-balance. A fist hit Kell in the ribs, and he hit the ground on the way down. The Harvester’s fingers slammed at his heart, but he rolled, Ilanna cutting an arc to smash the extended fingers, trapping them in the wood, embedding both bony fingers and axe in the platform.
Kell climbed to his feet, clutching his ribs, and the Harvester tugged at its trapped fingers, making a low but high-pitched growling sound. Its head snapped up, black eyes scowling at Kell who reached under his jerkin and pulled out his Svian knife. He leapt forward, knife slashing for the Harvester’s throat, blade cutting white flesh that parted like fish-meat, but no blood came out no scream emerged and the Harvester slapped a back-handed blow against Kell sending him rolling across the platform.
“Get in the boat!” screamed Saark. The current was pulling at them more viciously, and ice crackled in a flurry of shots.
Kell climbed to his feet, bearded face filled with a dark, controlled fury. He watched the Harvester rip its fingers free with a splintering of torn wood, and Ilanna fell to the platform with a slap. The Harvester stood tall, flexing its undamaged fingers. Kell swallowed. The blades should have amputated; instead, there was no mark. His gaze lifted to the slit throat, but the fish-flesh had knitted together, and was whole again.
Kell knew, now. There was blood-oil magick here; he could not kill this creature. Ilanna had been right, and this sickened him.
He ran, and the Harvester leapt at him with a hiss, fingers slashing for his heart. But Kell ducked, turned his run into a slide on icy wood, under the Harvester’s flashing bone talons to grasp his axe. Arms pumping, he sprinted for the boat even as Saark’s grip finally lost its battle and the boat slid out along the still water, crackling ice, to join the flow of the raging torrent. Kell leapt, landing heavily in the boat which rocked madly for a moment. Then he stood, staring back at the Harvester as he replaced his Svian in its sheath beneath his left arm, and they were whisked away into thickening mist.
“A good effort,” said Saark, smiling kindly at Kell. “If the bastard had been human, it’d now be dead.”
“But it’s not,” growled Kell, slumping down and taking the boat’s oars. “And that makes me want to puke. Come on, let’s get out of this godsforsaken city. It gives me the shits.”
General Graal led the way to the elevated tower room, presenting the broad target of his back to Dagon Trelltongue.
Dagon, a tall but slender man with shoulder-length grey hair and small eyes, wearing the finest silk and wool fashion-clothing of the south, felt keenly the presence of the delicate sword at his waist, the jewelled knife under his arm and the poison in the vial at his hip-belt. He swallowed, dry spit in a dry mouth. He could kill Graal, a swift piercing of sword through lungs, watch the general’s blood bubble onto the rich carpets they now walked. Dagon could send the Army of Iron back north, with no leader, no hope, no fire; he could save the coming war, save his friend, lord, and King, Leanoric—and indeed, all the people of Falanor.
Dagon’s eyes narrowed. Bastards!
No. They would pay. They would suffer.
Damn them all.
They entered a large chamber, once one of Jalder’s finest council offices. Thick carpets kept chill from stone flags, the walls were plastered and painted white, and the whole room was decorated with dark wood, inlaid with gold. Fine works of art hung at intervals around the chamber; discreet. Many comfort couches were set apart, amidst desks and stone pedestals showing several of Falanor’s heroes. Dagon had been here before, on many occasions, usually on business for King Leanoric. Now, there was a more sombre, and chilling, atmosphere.
Graal reached a long, lacquered desk and turned, suddenly, a swift movement. His long white hair drifted around his face for a moment, bright blue eyes fixing on Dagon who swallowed, seeing the smile on Graal’s face, knowing that Graal had read his thoughts, had presented his broad back as a test, a free shot, a target; and Dagon also knew this man was a mighty warrior. If he’d dared to attack, to try and save his people…well, he would now be dead.
“A brandy?”
“No, I shouldn’t,” came Dagon’s rich voice. He was a born orator, but here, in this company, he felt like a child. All his richly rehearsed speeches crumbled in the air like the stench of warm cabbage.
“I appreciate the, ah, ice-smoke is not to everybody’s liking. It chills the bones. Go on, Dagon, you have made a long journey to visit, a long journey to…” he laughed softly, “save your life. A little brandy cannot hurt. It is distilled from peaches from the King Leanoric’s own orchards, I believe.”
Dagon took a glass, and his eyes reflected in Leanoric’s crest carved skilfully into the faceted crystal surface. He drank deep, and observed Graal watching his trembling fingers, his nervous tongue, and he finished the brandy, felt warmth flood him, felt alcohol tingle his brain giving him just a little courage.
“So you will tell me everything?” said Graal, sipping at his own drink. Dagon saw the man’s fingers were long, tapered, even the finger-nails white. His gaze moved up to blue eyes fixed on him. Strange, that they were blue, thought Dagon. He watched. Graal did not blink.
“Yes,” croaked Dagon, eventually, feeling weak at the knees, full in the bladder, frightened to his very core.
“Numbers of infantry, cavalry, archers, pikemen? Where the divisions are stationed? The names of their division generals? Brigadier generals? Numbers of horses, supply chains, military routes through Falanor, everything?”
“Yes.”
“And of course,” said Graal, moving to Dagon, stooping a little to peer closer into the official’s eyes, “Leanoric. They say he is a great battle king. That he cannot be beaten on the field. He has shown, endlessly, that he has a brilliant mind, a tactician without compare. He is strong, handsome, commands respect and honour from his soldiers. Is all this correct?”
“It is…my lord.”
“I am a general, not a lord,” snapped Graal, crushing his cry
stal glass. It shattered, long jagged shards slicing Graal’s hand, thick brandy flowing over the wounds and dripping, mixed with normal red blood into the carpet. Graal did not flinch, did not even look at the wound, but retained his connection with Dagon.
“Yes, general,” whispered Dagon.
“There is one more thing.”
“General?” Dagon’s voice was little more than a whisper.
“Alloria. Leanoric’s queen. The mother of his two boys. She is his backbone, is she not? His love, his life, his strength. I want to know where she is, where she travels in the winter, who her maids of honour are, and which hand she uses to wipe her arse.”
“Alloria? But…I agreed to instruct you in armies, military strategy, and to speak of Leanoric…”
Graal’s hand snapped out, taking Dagon by the throat. Shards of crystal, embedded in Graal’s flesh, pierced Dagon’s skin and he squealed, legs kicking as Graal lifted him off the ground. “You will tell me everything. Leanoric is a worthy adversary; but if I remove his reason for life, diverge his thoughts by taking his queen then I have a powerful bartering tool, I have, shall we say, a strategy our tactician will appreciate. I cannot afford to lose time on this…” he smiled, almost sardonically, “invasion. You understand, Trelltongue?”
“Ye-es,” he managed, throat weeping blood.
Graal dropped Dagon to the carpet, turned, and languorously poured himself another brandy. His head came up as something drifted through the doorway, and Dagon’s breath caught in his throat as he watched the Harvester approach. He had seen them at work, seen them drain the corpses of women, and children. These creatures filled him with a terror straight from a deep primeval pit; a terror so awesome he could barely vocalise.